Page 63 of The Bridesmaid
‘I think … this invitation opens,’ I say. ‘The damp has sealed it together.’
Using my tweezers, I carefully pry it apart. I’m right. What looked to be a single piece of card has been folded in two. The edges are degraded with water damage, but the center is unspoilt.
‘Look,’ I breathe. ‘There’s a birthday itinerary inside.’
Chapter Forty-Nine
ADRIANNA
I lean on the balcony of the Tower Suite, staring out to sea.
After I screamed the place down, the masked figure vanished from sight. Within moments, Ophelia was at the door, hammering to get in. I was so worked up it took me several attempts to fit my fingerprint and open the door.
Security flooded the room while I sat on the bed shaking, my arms wrapped around my legs, but they found nothing.
‘Dri?’ I turn to see Georgia, practically dressed in ballet flats, navy culottes and cream camisole. Her anxious face is framed by a neatly styled Hermès scarf, dividing her mass of curling dark hair into a side parting, falling prettily forward over her neat brows.
She puts a hand over mine. ‘They can’t find any evidence of an intruder anywhere,’ she says softly, watching my eyes. ‘No one could have gotten in or out. We checked. Are yousure—’
I shake my head fiercely. ‘I saw someone. On the balcony. Someone wearing a cloak and a mask.’ I’m still breathing hard. Slow, considered breaths.
‘I spoke to your therapist,’ says Georgia gently. ‘She says it’s quite usual to have trauma flashbacks when faced with the same environment. And given the stress of the wedding …’
‘What about the cake?’ I demand. ‘Did Iimaginethat?’ Feelings overwhelm me, and tears prick my eyes.
Georgia squeezes my hand. ‘Dri,’ she says finally, ‘is there something you’re not telling me?’
I don’t answer.
‘The secret bar, in the panic room. Sepulcrum?’ She gives me a loaded look. ‘I saw the designs. I know it’s supposed to have a gothic edge, but … what does our old school crest have to do with a luxury chill-out lounge?’
‘The brief for Sepulcrum was eclectic,’ I say, trying to keep my tone casual. My hand is trembling. Forcibly, I will it to stop.
‘Just … all those saints and stuff,’ she presses. ‘It’s creepy.’
‘Kitsch is really in,’ I say, relieved that I’ve managed to get my voice under control now. ‘We’re just used to seeing it a certain way because of Kensington Manor School. All the tortured martyrs.’ I can’t trust my voice anymore, so I stop talking, looking out onto the island.
Georgia frowns. ‘Silky’s notepad,’ she says. ‘Housekeeping took it. We need to get it back.’
I glance across at her, confused.
‘It wasn’t just sad schoolgirls Silky had drawn,’ continues Georgia. ‘There was … this … cloaked figure. Exactly like the person who held you captive.’ She pauses, watching my face. ‘Dri, how would Silky know that? You only told police, right?’
My hands tighten on the rail. I can’t lie to her, so I don’t say anything. There’s a long pause.
They all know Trinity. Silky. Petra, Ophelia.
‘Might it be a good idea to fly Silky home?’ suggests Georgia.
I twist to her. ‘You think we could?’ I can’t keep the relief from my voice.
‘If she’s sick …’ Georgia’s voice trails off. ‘I’ll call housekeeping,’ she decides, moving to the bedside phone. ‘See if they can check on her.’
‘Have them locate the sketchpad too,’ I say pressing my fingertips into my forehead. ‘We should … destroy it. Maybe.’
Georgia gives a brief decisive nod.
It’s all too much, suddenly. The wedding. The bridesmaids. Trinity.Who did that to my cake?
